


Till Care and Grief Grow Dim

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [8]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Assault, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur has a serious case of chronically delayed reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Care and Grief Grow Dim

Eames wakes up in the middle of the night because he's too warm. It takes him a moment to sort through things, a slow jerky transition between _overheated_ and _somebody next to me_ and _Arthur_. It occurs to him that this is odd, since Arthur likes his space when he's asleep, and then he wakes up enough to register the dull ache in his shoulders where Arthur's holding to him, fingernails digging into Eames' skin.

Arthur's eyes are wide, his face otherwise blank, staring in a way that's frankly a little scary. Eames is starting to register that this is not, in all likeliness, an attempt to initiate sleepy sex.

"Arthur?" he says.

Arthur's eyes close and open, too slow to be called a blink. As if in slow motion, his head drops onto Eames' shoulder. There's a movement, something Eames' hands are slow to parse. It takes him entire minutes to realize Arthur's shaking, and even after that his sleep-dumb brain can't figure out _why_.

So he holds on to Arthur, just as hard, they'll both be sporting bruises in the morning, but it's hardly the first time that's happened.

~~

Eames means to talk to Arthur in the morning. The problem with this is that when he wakes up it's not morning so much as noon, and he wakes up to the dull thump of clothes hitting his face.

"Get dressed," Arthur says. "We've got to be at the air port in an hour."

Eames curses, pulling everything on. "What the hell happened to the alarm clock?"

"I turned it off," Arthur says, leaving the room without a further word of explanation. Eames is left to stare at his back in a state of increasing bafflement and irritation.

~~

The Auraki job is... not too bad, actually, for all that Eames is doing his share of it in a shamefully half-arsed manner because he can't seem to concentrate on anything. His entire attention seems to devote itself to a fine dissection of everything Arthur does, or says, or doesn't. Mostly the latter.

Because, well. Of course Arthur needs to act distant, they're on a job, they're being professional and discreet. But – not like this. It's never like this, and Eames is going out of his goddamned _mind_ trying to figure out what's going on. He keeps casting little baits out, and they are – not well-received.

By now, Eames would do something very stupid and dangerous if he thought that would get Arthur – not even to smile at Eames, he doesn't have his aspirations set that high, but to maybe arch a cool eyebrow, to say something clever and mocking. Anything but the dead silence Eames is getting. The worst of it is that Eames suspects that may be _because_ he's angling for a reaction. Perhaps Arthur is merely responding to that, putting up that stoic front he does so well to deflect the others' attention away from them.

Probably he should back off. If he can't be professional, the least Eames can do is pretend to be a bloody adult. But very sadly he can't, so he goes on, and every time Arthur's non-responses grow a little bit colder.

At the end of the third day he lingers, staying in the warehouse until after everyone is gone. He's not even doing anything, just blatantly playing Minesweeper and daring their extractor to give him shit about it. The extractor, wisely, says nothing, just shakes his head at Eames and goes home.

After he leaves, there's a change in the quality of the silence emanating from Arthur's desk. Eames raises his head at it, and curses himself for being so well-trained as to recognize it for what it is.

Arthur's face is expressionless, and Eames has an idea what he's going to say. It's an awful idea, and Eames suddenly entertains the thought of not sticking around to hear it. Maybe he could just leave, get the fuck out, go somewhere and get shitfaced, or maybe let someone get him shitfaced. Why the fuck not. And then.

Well, no, then Eames would get off the chair – weaving, no doubt – and call Arthur; and when that call went unanswered he would take a taxi back to his own hotel room, alone, and go to work tomorrow in spite of the massive bloody hangover he'd be sporting. Because Arthur would expect him to be there, wouldn't he.

Eames has no idea what Arthur sees in his face just then, but it makes _Arthur's_ face crumple. "Eames," Arthur says, rising from his chair, leaning forward as if drawn to Eames, "Eames, I'm sorry, why are you looking at me like that, stop – "

"Fuck you," Eames says, but he's already standing, moving toward Arthur. He's not even thinking when he pins Arthur to the wall, using the advantage of his weight to make Arthur be still. Arthur makes a sound at that, and Eames backs the _fuck_ off because _holy bloody hell, that was_ not _a good sound._

They're standing about one step from each other, eyes locked, and Arthur is breathing funny and his shoulders begin to shake and Eames doesn't know what the fuck to _do_.

"Arthur," he says, downright pleading now. "What's wrong?"

Arthur looks at him, eyes huge and – _scared_ , Eames realizes, and that's downright terrifying in and of itself – and he says, "I don't know."

There's something false there, though, and Eames isn't a forger for nothing. "Like hell you don't," Eames says. "Tell me." What the hell is wrong with Arthur? This doesn't make any sense. Arthur isn't prone to moods, Arthur is never like this (although it's only been a year, less than a year, what the hell does Eames know?). Arthur never gets panicked, doesn't get nightmares –

 _Nightmares_ , Eames thinks, and _He flinched when I touched him_ , and finally, _A year. A little less._

Eames, who was educated in a Catholic school, cannot find in his memory anything blasphemous enough to suit the situation. He takes a few steps back, sits down heavily, landing in his chair mostly by happy accident. Arthur stays where he is, but thankfully looking a little less likely to fall apart any minute.

Quite possibly, Eames shouldn't be surprised by this. He knows Arthur – fuck it, less than a year or fifty years, Eames knew Arthur after the first three months. The rest is just details.

One important detail, however, is that Eames knows that Arthur has a serious case of chronically delayed reaction. Arthur was once shot in the arm and neglected to mention it until a week later. Granted, he'd seen to it, gotten it bandaged and all the proper things. But it was only a week later that he collapsed on the couch, next to a very startled Eames, and rasped out, "Fuck, I could have _died_."

And the worse the problem, the longer the delay, as if Arthur needed time to build up the suitable emotional response. A day for a minor life-threatening situation, a week for major injury, a month that one time Eames got captured and treated most uncivilly. He appreciates Arthur's ability to compartmentalize, since it gets them out most of the troubles they put themselves into.

But now Arthur is in front of him, no longer shaking apart but hardly stable, and Eames needs to make it better but can't think of anything to do that won't make it actively worse. The distance between them is a yawning chasm that Eames doesn't know how to reach across.

Then Arthur takes a step forward, puts a hand on Eames' shoulder, and Eames is reminded all over again of how subjective distances are.

"You said you'd tell me," Eames says, "if – " he stumbles over it. He should call it by name, get it out in the open, but he can't. "If you weren't fine anymore," he finishes, in a less-than-steady tone of voice.

Arthur's shoulders sag, slightly. "I guess I'm telling you now," he says.

If Eames pieced this together correctly, which despite his fervent hopes he rather thinks he did, Arthur is just now thinking about that time where he was – was nearly hurt very badly.

Which is just a way of talking around it. Eames should probably just say the correct word, talk about what happened. But he can't bring himself to do that. Eames can barely think about ( _that fuckface Cooper, pulling Arthur's hair until his head bowed back, unwilling_ ) the entire experience. Or at least not without it derailing into detailed fantasies of disemboweling Cooper and burning the remains while they still twitched.

Can't kill the dead, though, so Eames settles for resting his hand on Arthur's, and Arthur doesn't pull away.

"I'm almost over it now," Arthur says, which is a bloody stinking lie. Eames can feel it in the slight tremor of Arthur's hands, in the uneven rhythm of his breaths. Arthur is only forcing it down, making it stay put.

He rubs Arthur's hand, slowly, offering what comfort he can. "It won't help if you just repress it further. It'll only jump on you harder later."

Arthur snorts. "Yeah, you have a better idea?"

Eames wishes he did. As it is, he can only try his best. "If there's anything I can do," he says instead.

Arthur looks down at him, and it's not a hard look. Just tired, and completely immovable. "If I asked you," he says, so soft that Eames has to strain to hear him, "to leave me alone. Not because I don't want you around, or – " he stops to look aside, twisting his body away.

"I need to be with myself for a little," Arthur says, eventually. "If, if you can't do that, I'll beg off the job and leave. Not for long," he says, probably because Eames' hand is tightening on his own to the point of painfulness. "Just until I get my head back together. But I'd rather keep you in my line of sight if I can do that." He squeezes Eames' hand back, just as hard.

Eames thinks _No_ , thinks, _I couldn't stand it if we spent another day where you act like you wish I didn't exist_ , but what he says is, "All right."

Arthur's fingers trail briefly across the back of his neck. Arthur leaves the room without a word. Eames bows his head, because looking at his shoes is infinitely preferable to watching Arthur leave.

~~

It's very unfortunate that Eames was never able to lose himself in his job the way Arthur does when he's distraught. He dares say that if he could, the Auraki job would have been the shining star of his portfolio. As it was, he barely scraped through it, only saving himself from absolute professional infamy by the realization that should he falter, he would reflect badly on Arthur.

Can't have that, now, can he?

Eames is well aware that he's bitter. He's also fairly certain that he's doing the absolute best he can under the circumstances. He's letting Arthur be. If that means that, when he gets the urge to reach for Arthur's attention, he summons instead the memory of Arthur's unsteady hands to force himself into inaction, well, at least it's effective.

But then the job is over – scrapped, thank goodness, God only knows what an unholy mess Eames would have made of it in his current state – and they are alone with each other, and Eames isn't sure what the rules are right now.

"I think I might take another job," Arthur says after some deliberation. "You don't have to come along."

Eames looks Arthur straight in the eye. "Would you rather I didn't?"

"Depends," Arthur says, evenly. "Can you actually do your job in this one?"

It's sad to admit, but Eames is forced to give this serious thought, and is dismayed to realize that he honestly doesn't know. "Possibly not," he says with a sigh. "Perhaps I'll fly to Mombasa. See what Yusuf's been up to."

Arthur's expression barely changes, but his voice cracks when he says, "I'm not doing this to punish you."

"Of course you aren't," Eames says, more vehemently than he intended. He's not sure what he meant to say next but that's blocked, train of thought thrown clean off the lines by the defensive hunch of Arthur's shoulders. He coughs and lowers his voice slightly. "Of course," he says. "Anything you need, Arthur. Anything I can do."

Arthur puts his hands on Eames' shoulder, a light touch that's the most Eames had from him in a week. Eames tries not to let it show how much he's basking in the contact, the brief muffled warmth of Arthur's hands through his clothes. "Then be safe," Arthur says at last. "Don't go doing anything stupid."

"Yeah," Eames says, for lack of anything better. "You, too."

Arthur walks away from him, then, to another job or another country or anything, hell if Eames knows. Eames could do the same, fuck off to Kenya, Baghdad, fucking Antarctica, find out for himself whether polar bears eat penguins.

He finds himself on a flight to Paris, instead, where they keep a safe house that's more house-like than most their properties, for all that it's a creaky old apartment with temperamental plumbing and a clinically dead elevator. It was Eames' before he met Arthur, and being alone there doesn't feel as odd as would in any of the places they bought together, less pathetic than just checking into a hotel and staying there for the duration.

Arthur works. Eames keeps busy.

He tells himself that it's hardly worse than what they've always done, flying apart and coming together. Sadly, Eames is very good at knowing when people are lying to him, himself included.

Eames paints a little. He watches a lot of awful movies. He gets drunk, once, going to a bar and telling himself he'll go with the first person who asks, man or woman, fit or troll-like in appearance. But he just ends up saying fifteen different shades of _No_ and hauling himself home to wait for Arthur, stored away and convenient like Arthur's clothes, like Arthur's goddamned shoes in their own drawer.

He wakes to a world-encompassing headache and the smell of something being fried somewhere. He'd fall back asleep, except that he's simultaneously nauseated and starving, and the neighbors have apparently decided to torture him with the promise of French toast. Fitting, that.

Eames is struggling with the concept of getting up when the door slowly opens, and inside comes Arthur, a plate of sweet fried bread in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Eames blinks up at him and says, "I think I love you."

Arthur snorts. "You know you love me, asshole." But he hands Eames the water glass next and sits on the side of the bed while Eames eats. Eames takes the opportunity to sneak none-too-subtle looks at him as he wolfs the food down. Arthur's looking better. Which, granted, isn't that difficult, but a relief nevertheless.

He sets down the plate when he's finished, downs the glass of water and puts that aside as well. Arthur's looking at him, and if Eames didn't know better he'd have sworn Arthur looked uncertain right then.

Just in case he's not wrong, Eames lifts the corner of the blanket. "Come here, will you?"

There's a tense millisecond where he doesn't know which way Arthur will jump. When Arthur leans back to shed his jacket and then burrows under the blanket, Eames is so fucking relieved he could burst with it.

He waits for Arthur's nod of permission before grabbing him into a tight bear-hug, rubbing his hands roughly against Arthur's back, not careful of him at all. Arthur's the most durable thing that Eames has ever known.

Arthur's giving back as good as he's getting, scattering none-too-gentle bites across Eames' shoulders, fingers digging for purchase, hard and demanding. Eames melts under them, into them, basically ready to do anything Arthur asks as long as it means Arthur stays _right exactly_ where he is.

For now, Arthur seems content that he has Eames where he wants him. In Eames' opinion, this is rather unfair – it's not like he's the one who swanned off to parts unknown, after all – but there's nothing actually objectionable about the notion. Eames stays put and allows Arthur to crawl on top of him.

When Eames puts his hands to the back of Arthur's neck he's gentle, though, not because he has to but because he wants to. "All right?" he says, himself not certain of how far that question goes.

Arthur considers this. That quirk of his mouth isn't a smile, but it's heading in the right direction. "Okay," he says. "For now. Got through the worst of it."

It's a good thing that Eames knows better than to say, _I wish you'd let me help_. Or worse, _I wish you'd talk to me about it_. It's been twelve months since he met Arthur, a year nearly to the day, and in that time Eames has grown more and more certain that Arthur is the sanest human being that Eames will ever meet. Considering their line of work, this is almost certainly true, but it's beyond that.

Arthur's life was never easy, not when Eames met him and not before. And the thing is, if Eames ever said something along those lines, he knows for a fact that the only reaction he'll get is a confused look. Arthur is almost painfully excellent at putting himself back together, stronger and more resilient. Eames' interference would have hindered more than helped; the best assistance he could offer was to stay away and let Arthur sort it out.

Except Arthur chooses this moment to bury his face in Eames' collarbone and sigh, arms tightening around Eames with impossible strength. Eames strokes Arthur's hair and thinks about going away and coming home. Sometimes, the best thing you could do for someone was wait. Sometimes, the best you could do was to be there when they needed to come to you.

And sometimes, sometimes – oh, fuck this maudlin shit. Eames has Arthur in his bed. Arthur isn't going anywhere; good enough. Eames closes his eyes and resolves to think about this at some point in the future when his head doesn't feel like it's trying to implode.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Some tales are meant to end in cuddles  
>  Some tales, in porn.  
> Since I am tired and befuddled,  
> Methinks this time it ends in cuddles._
> 
>  _But should another fic be born  
>  Mayhaps again I'll stay up late  
> To know that to the readers, porn  
> Is also great  
> And won't be scorned.  
> \- Most Definitely Not Robert Frost._


End file.
